The Land of Calais
by Elizabeth Ellington
Summary: A French émigré, rescued by the mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel, is determined to find out her family back in France when convinced that the Scarlet Pimpernel has not kept his promise.
1. Part 1

**The Land of Calais**

By Melody M. G. (15)

Part I

Chapter One

The Scarlet Pimpernel

I

The shore of Calais was silent. Not one living thing seemed to disturb her calmness. The sun had long before set, and darkness reigned sovereign in the city.

Nothing seemed to stir the silence, at least.

Down in the lowest, darkest part of the city, inside a small, dank shack – natural to find in that year of grace 1792—a man, by appearance a worthy citizen of the newly acclaimed Republic of France, dressed in the voluntary suit of rags and a cap with the tricolor stuck on carelessly upon his head, stood upon the rotten floorboards of the old building. Two other similarly-dressed men stood beside him, quite short compared to the first man's considerable stature. Beside the three men a young girl, dressed in more feminine-looking rags, sat upon a chair beside a rickety table on which she had lain a small childish hand. A plate of scanty provisions and a glass, filled with the contents of a bottle of sour wine, all stood on the table. The girl was looking with unabashed admiration and awe on the taller man, but her eyes lowered shamefacedly when he chuckled with a sense wholly unlike that of a ordinary citizen of France. And his accent, though he spoke the native tongue, sounded not absolutely like a Frenchman, as he said in reply to the girl's silent respect,

"Gad, my girl! Your eyes are popping out of your head. You mustn't look at me with such esteem. 'Twas my gallant friends, here, who took out the rescue. Besides, you had better eat. We have quite a journey to the shore before dawn." He motioned toward the plate and turned to his friends, speaking in English.

"If you leave here within half an hour you should be on the _Daydream_ before 3 in the morning. You had better tell Hastings and St. Denys to come along. They will not be needed in France for the time being. I shall stay here and bring along Monsieur de Monstre and his family. I will meet you on the _Daydream_ at six, if all goes well."

"But, Percy, Chauvelin—" protested one of the two.

"La, Andrew, what of my old friend Chambertin? I should be honored to have another _tête-à-tête_ with him," returned the taller jovially.

"Really, Percy, one of these days they will get you, and you will be in the same pinch as you were when you rescued the Dauphin."

Sir Percy Blakeney, Bar., his face and hands plastered with dirt and his elegant frame disgraced in rags, let out an inane laugh which woke the silent rafters from their age-old sleep.

"By gad, my dear fellow!" he cried good-humouredly, "What a dull fellow you are! No, I will forgive you this time, old lad. Zounds! What a beastly place that prison was. I myself, though I admit I am quite used to most, thought it too vile for a gentleman to live in."

"But Percy, they know you too well now," said the other—one of the richest men in England—Lord Anthony Dewhurst. "They saw you every day of those two weeks. Surely they would recognize you under any disguise. It is too dangerous for you to go out anymore. I read suspicion in the guard's eyes at the gate out of Amiens, when we were disguised as vegetable carriers."

"Very well for the guard, Tony," rejoined Sir Percy in a more serious tone of voice, "What would happen if I retired from my duty? The de Monstre family needs me. I cannot forsake them now— nor any of the thousands of innocents being slain like sheep daily."

The statement was too true to be contradicted. The two most trustworthy members of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel knew their chief. Even when Sir Andrew Foulkes had protested against his friend's dangerous undertaking into the innermost parts of Paris where the most astute bloodhounds were on the Scarlet Pimpernel's track, he knew too well it would be fruitless to persuade Sir Percy to abandon it. Sir Percy would go; and there was no telling if this would be his last escapade.

But such risks did not trouble Sir Percy Blakeney, the most foppish dandy in English society. For in France, he had such a will power that none were able to persuade him in anything that would be the salvation to the innocent—not even his beautiful wife Lady Marguerite Blakeney, who at that moment was anxiously awaiting her husband's return.

Thus said, Sir Percy now, as he stood in a dank and run-down scanty piece of shelter, again laughed that inane laugh that made so many high-in-office revolutionists shudder within themselves.

"Come along, Andrew," he said as he brought his palm down on that young gentleman's back with vigor. "You must be going. Remember, I meet you at the _Daydream_ at six."

With that, Sir Percy left the place before Sir Andrew or Lord Tony could make an opposition.

II

Fifteen minutes later the faint sound of feet treading the soft ground could be heard only by the keenest listeners, and by dawn Sir Percy's yacht, the _Daydream,_ had set sail upon the silent waters, drifting away from the sleeping city of Calais, bound for England.

As the sun rose on the following morn, the French girl stood upon the deck of the English schooner. Now dressed in a simple but full summer dress as she stood against the railing, her longing eyes turned toward the fast-disappearing piece of shore visible of her home country.

"Poor France," she murmured softly, her blonde hair being blown about in the sea air and her small hands lightly touching the railing. "How is it that she is so blood-ridden, that I must escape from her beautiful shores as a refugee?"

"Because unfortunately assassins have invaded its attractive shoreline," answered a languid voice from behind.

Turning swiftly around, the girl encountered a gentleman walking out onto the deck. He was dressed in an elaborately tailored suit with shining buckled shoes and all. He smiled lazily at the French girl's surprise.

"Do not be alarmed, Mademoiselle," he said, assuming the most disciplined English drawing-room manners. "Be assured I have not spied on you, but have just arrived up here."

The girl looked keenly at the English gentleman. The perfectly tailored suit, the smoothed hair, the lazy blue eyes seemed wholly unlike the dirty ragged men she had had for company in the squalid shelter earlier that morning.

Her thoughts went back to the day before when she had been rescued from a terrible death; suddenly snatched out from among bloodthirsty human wolves and taken in a seed bag to a wagon, thrown in as if a pack of potatoes, and ridden hell-for-leather out of the city gates. It had seemed so sudden, so unexpected, from her escape from the tumbrel taking her to the dreaded death, to finding herself on an English schooner that took her across the channel and to safety.

She wondered what this English, unhurried gentleman had to do with her rescue; how he had appeared on this boat taking her to his country, it was true—she could tell from his accent that he was English.

It was inevitable, then, for her to ask the question:

"Who are you?"

The gentleman's eyes twinkled amusingly and the lazy smile did not disappear.

"Sir Percy Blakeney, at you utmost service, Mademoiselle --"

"Jeanne Mange," she finished for him.

"Ah! How lovely a name, Mademoiselle Mange. You have just come from France, I understand? I heard you speaking of that country as your own."

"Occupied, as you said, Monsieur, by assassins. I might have been killed at their relentless hand but for the Scarlet Pimpernel."

"The Scarlet Pimpernel!" exclaimed Sir Percy, raising a finger of recognition. "Demmed popular fellow in England, begad."

"Indeed? Do you know who he is?"

Her innocent eyes brightened in curiosity of her anonymous savior.

"Unfortunately, his real identity is a mystery to all but his followers."

"Ah," she replied quietly, her eyes lowering to the ground.

"I had a message from him when I was rescued, in which he said that he would soon return to France and save my family from suffering the same death."

"Then your family is still in France?"

"Yes. I would not have left without them, but as it is I—"

"The Scarlet Pimpernel does not save all at once, then," cut in Sir Percy with a light laugh.

The flippant manner of the English gentleman was not very soothing to the girl's tried soul. She let out a sigh and turned to the sea.

"Forgive me, mademoiselle," said Sir Percy, letting in a touch of concern into his glib tone of voice.

"I will relieve you of my company." And with an elaborate bow, he disappeared under the deck.

Chapter Two

Promises

I

The _Daydream_, led along by calm winds, arrived in a private port on the shores of Dover three days later. The little "nest" was not abandoned, for Lady Blakeney sat therein eagerly awaiting her husband's return, and also ready with comforting attentions to the ones he had rescued. Though only nine in the morning, Marguerite's face showed no signs of sleepiness, and she had donned a light summer frock. She sat close to the window of the little cabin, looking out on the sea for close on an hour, until a white sail seemed to come up from out of the green water and slowly grow into a boat. She calmly sat a while longer until the _Daydream _had stopped in port and then made her way to it.

At the sight of Marguerite Sir Percy forgot everything and held her in his arms. Everything concerning adventure and France passed out of his mind for those few moments whilst the wife of the master adventurer savored those only too short sweet moments.

It was in this way that mademoiselle Mange saw the couple, as she was being led by Sir Andrew and my Lord Hastings off the schooner. Though afar off, she could see the form of the foppish gentleman whose company she had had on the yacht; as they embraced each other she guessed the woman to be his wife, who acted as though she had not seen him in months. Vaguely the questions again passed through her mind: Who was he? Why had he accompanied her on the schooner? Where had he come from? Could he possibly, _perhaps, _be… no! the thought was quickly suppressed as soon as it presented itself. He was too well dressed. Though her rescuers seemed to have an English accent, they looked completely different from this immaculately-dressed Sir Percy Blakeney. Her mind did not comprehend any reason… any answer… so she turned away resolutely and forgot it. She was in England now; safe from the wolves of Paris. The Scarlet Pimpernel would soon bring her family home to her, and then nothing could make her happier. She would not trouble herself about that savior's identity.

II

The newly arrived émigrés from France were welcomed to all the society balls. The guests eagerly anticipated the telling of intriguing stories how the Scarlet Pimpernel, the supernatural hero, rescued the French aristocrats. At a ball given by the widow Lady Smith, the Count de Monstre and his wife, the countess, and their two daughters were welcomed and the girls hastily told to embark upon their amazing story: how they had been led right out of the Temple prison disguised as relations of the prison janitor, how they narrowly escaped re-arrest on their way to the coast only by the strange Englishman's supernatural powers of making them disappear into the darkness. It was all so marvelous and inhuman; but mademoiselle Mange's story was even harder to believe.

That young woman came dressed as she had hardly been in France those troubled days; her dark hair once more powdered and her hands again immaculate and white. She was asked to recount her rescue by the Scarlet Pimpernel, and she could not but tell it before an eager audience. With bated breath they listened as she began:

"I would not be here but for the Scarlet Pimpernel, whose kind heart pitied me and rescued me from the murderous jaws of the Revolutionists in my home country," she said solemnly, her eyes shining with gratitude as she continued, "I had been imprisoned for under two days; taken from my family, accused on mere suspicion because of the new "Law of the Suspect". My accusation was treason against my country—which was preposterous, for I would never betray my country! But so it was… I was destined for the guillotine, or so I thought. I, along with a few other more or less wrongly-accused prisoners, was being taken to Paris to be tried, and finally executed. I chose not to think of it as I sat in the coach, my hands tied together as if I were a criminal.

"We stopped twice or three times along the way at wayside inns for a night's rest and to eat—our only food being a piece of stale bread and a bit of old water, scarcely sufficient to keep us from fainting into an un-mature death.

It was at one of these that the captain and soldiers were replaced with new ones.

"This inn, particularly closed from the outer world, was dirty and desolate, with only a very old and bedraggled innkeeper who only grunted in answer to any question put to him. There were no other inhabitants, except the new squad of soldiers who were sitting inside the inn when we were shoved in.

"They seemed to have been waiting for our arrival, for as soon as we entered the obvious captain of them stood and saluted.

"'Citizen Captain,' he demanded.

"'Here, Citizen Captain," returned the other, stepping forward and saluting.

"'You are to transfer the prisoners to our care," commanded the first, 'here are our orders.' Drawing a piece of paper from his bosom, he handed it to our commander. It seemed to convince him, for he handed it back and sighed a sigh of relief as loud as he dared.

"'Very well, Citizen Captain," he said, and turning to his soldiers, commanded them to eat and rest and prepare for the journey back to Amiens, from thence we had come.

"As usual our journey continued the next day to Paris. We were commanded to enter the coach, but roughly helped in by the soldiers. I cared not what happened, for I knew where the end would find me—tried at the tribunal and summarily guillotined. Why, then, should I care to see in what direction were going? I knew it to be Paris.

"My first sensing of something unnatural was the sound of a long, low, drawling laugh coming from the front of the carriage. It was unusual, for I had never heard a Frenchman laugh that way, especially these days when all sense of humor—except the grim humor when watching the guillotine at work—had been struck dead by the death knell of Revolutionary France. Even greater was my wonder, when looking out the window, I saw that we were going in the opposite direction, and on a lonely road other than the one we had come by. About half-way to Amiens we halted outside a small house and the mock soldiers disappeared inside, emerging once more dressed as vegetable carriers. We were told to enter a much used cart which was full of vegetables and hide ourselves under them. My head whorled, but I kept silent because my confusion was too great.

"At the gate exiting Amiens we were stopped of course, but as there was no suspicion of them being traitors, we were allowed to pass on without the cart being searched.

"I was slowly beginning to understand that we were being rescued. My fellow prisoners were awed also as we stopped at a small, squalid hut, situated far off the main road. It was there that I knew for certain that my rescuers were English. As the others who had been rescued made themselves ready to travel by foot to the coast, I ate and heard the talk of our rescuers. They were definitely English, and as I had heard of a mysterious band of Englishmen who carried out the rescue of many unfortunate Frenchmen, I knew our rescuers were the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel."

The story was supernatural: never had there been such an amazing happening! As another Frenchman was persuaded to tell of his adventures Jeanne took refuge in a quiet parlor.

Again her mind was in a swirl of questions which she could not answer. She was not one who took pleasure in mysteries, and therefore strove to find out why Sir Percy Blakeney should have been on a yacht sailing from France.

The other mystery which troubled her mind was the anonymity of her rescuers. Who were they? She desired ever so much to know.

From out of her lace chiffon she pulled a small piece of paper. On it was written in elegant but slightly-hastily written words:

_Do not worry for your family. They will soon join you in England—you have my word of honor._

As a signature was drawn a small red star-shaped flower, by name in England, the Scarlet Pimpernel.

With a curious movement Jeanne looked closely at the words, the flourish of the pen, the paper on which they were written. The latter was dirty and grimy, and had evidence of having been torn off from a larger source.

She had found the note stuck into the skirt pocket of the dress she had put on when boarding the _Daydream_ bound for England and safety. The dress was lain upon her bed in the yacht, ready to be clad. It was not until out on the deck before Sir Percy appeared that, distractedly putting a hand in her pocket she felt that same piece of paper.

Since then she had kept it near her heart, stuck in her chiffon, as it was the only thing she possessed pertaining to her family back in France. That simple reassurance gave her hope—that somehow her Lord was using this wonderful, kind-hearted band of Englishman to save her family from a horrible death. She knew He would guide the Scarlet Pimpernel in his rescue as He had in hers, and it seemed as if nothing could go wrong.

III

"Mademoiselle," a voice broke in on her thoughts. She looked up to see the kindly face of Lord Anthony Dewhurst, and met by two fearless, gentle, and honest eyes.

"Mademoiselle, you seem to be enjoying your evening in solitude."

"Somewhat, monsieur," she replied respectfully, all the while noticing a particular resemblance of that voice to that of one she had heard in a run-down hut in a conversation between three Englishmen.

"Then may I assist you in enjoying it even more by inviting you to dance?" his kindly smile and extreme gentlemanly manners could not be refused, and besides, Jeanne was curious to study him more.

"Do you know who the Scarlet Pimpernel is—my rescuer?" she asked as they moved along the dance floor to the _Alamone_.

An odd light passed through her partner's eyes as a smile crept over his ever-merry lips.

"Do you, mademoiselle?" he asked.

"Alas, no, monsieur. I am at great pains to find who he is. Can one who has been rescued by him be at rest in her mind until she know who it is that risked so much for her?—a man other than her own nationality at that!"

"Perhaps," was Lord Tony's simple reply. "Her mind will be at rest when she understands the danger of such a knowledge."

"What danger, monsieur?"

"If all who were rescued by the Scarlet Pimpernel knew his identity, the danger of his capture in France would be even greater than it is now."

Jeanne's keen mind guessed that Lord Tony, with his passionate and earnest opinion of the Scarlet Pimpernel, must be in the league of that mysterious one.

"You must be one of them, I know, monsieur. You were one of them who rescued me."

Her bold remark took Lord Tony by surprise, and for the space of a few seconds he was suddenly alert, and glanced quickly around at the other dancers, but no one seemed to have heard. He did not say anything, perhaps because his mind was wondering how his confessing that he _was_ one of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel would affect the secrecy of his leader's identity.

In the end he spoke quite calmly, possibly because he resolved that he would guard that secret jealously and his confession would do no harm.

"I am," he said, proudly.

"You deceive me in the identity of your leader, then," remarked Jeanne, smiling mischievously at him.

"As I have said, mademoiselle, if every refugee from France knew who was behind the mask of my leader, the information would surely leak to the revolutionists who desire his life—however loyal the rescued are."

Thus Jeanne could not wrest from this most loyal member of the League, the very secret that troubled her. How else, she wondered, could she find the answer? The only solution lay in the means of her brain. She would find out, she promised herself. How mush more loyal she would be to him then, if she only knew!

Chapter Three

Lady Blakeney

I

Sir Percy Blakeney had gone once more. Hunting was his excuse this time. His wife, the woman of fashion, Lady Blakeney, said he was sure to return in less than a week.

She herself, though in society's eyes glad to be rid of her husband, was in truth going through mental torture. The carrier he had promised on leaving to say when he would return to her arms was her only solace. The rest of those dreary five days was spend thinking of what danger he was risking at that very moment; and then she remembered the One Who planned whether or not he would return to her alive, and she prayed her heart out begging Him to allow her husband to return safely. Nothing else—not even balls or her own garden parties were enough to take her mind off Sir Percy's not being present at them; and the continual inquiries of—"When is Sir Percy to come back?" or "'Tis been over four days Sir Percy has been away. When shall he join us once more?" – were enough to drive her nigh crazy, and make her want to cry out: "He is in France saving lives, as you never credit him with having such a heart of pity!"

But she kept silent: only for his sake and for the sake of those whom he risked his life for. Lord Hastings remained in England, and his presence was a great comfort to Marguerite, for she knew the worries and anxieties he himself endured, which were similar to hers. He tried his best to comfort and reassure her of Sir Percy's audacity and pluck, which would, together, certainly bring him back safe and sound—not excepting, he fervently added, the guide of the One Great Leader Whom Sir Percy named Chance, with one hair on it's head, which he almost always succeeded in catching.

II

The day was bright and warm. A gentle breeze mocked the humidity, and therefore made it agreeable to be out of doors. A clump of birch trees in the midst of the lawn of Blakeney Manor shaded the large abode, and also some late lilies below it.

Jeanne, clad in a light summer gown and loose shawl, was coming up the drive. Her carriage was already gone round to the stables, and she could hear it's wheels on the flag stones. As she walked she looked around at the grounds of the stately mansion: the gorgeous flowerbeds, the vine making it's way up the walls behind them, and finally the large oak door that confronted her in all its richness and entirety.

Picking up the knocker, Jeanne let it fall two or three times and resigned herself to wait.

She was calling in response to an invitation received by the lady of this mansion; though surprised by it's arrival in her post, the note attached sufficed to quiet her astonishment, if not only a little.

_My dear Mademoiselle Mange,June, '92 _

_Blakeney Manor_

_I so desire your company, if you have the time. You see, I am quite alone in this great house while Sir Percy is gone away; and as you are one of the newly arrived refugees from France—and rescued by that mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel—and I being French by birth myself, I wished to have just a little chat—if you don't mind, that is. I am your most affectionate servant,_

_Lady Marguerite Blakeney._

In less than ten seconds the door was opened by a tall doorman, who sternly asked her what her business was.

"I received an invitation to a chat with Lady Blakeney," she replied, handing him the card. Then only did his eyes soften, and he allowed her to pass with an apologetic: "Certainly, Madame — Come this way."

On entering she was immediately greeted by Marguerite, bright and affectionate, offering any delicacy to be got. She led Jeanne into a parlor, where was set tea for two. She invited her to sit, and after providing her with a cup of tea and a plate of refreshments, Marguerite began more seriously.

"I am only too glad you came, and accepted my invitation, Jeanne. As I said in my note, I am exceedingly lonely, having nothing to do, though I _do_ visit with my dear little friend Suzanne Flouks quite often!" she spoke pleasantly, and now paused, her shining, young eyes examining her visitor closely but not rudely. "Do you know Sir Andrew Flouks, my dear?" she asked.

"No, Lady Blakeney…" replied Jeanne, but the former interrupted her.

"Pray call me Marguerite, Jeanne—you do not mind me calling you that?"

"No indeed!"

"You are too dear. You see, Jeanne, how lonely I get in this large house, which I assure you is too large for only Sir Percy and myself. That is partly why I sent for you; I also had a particular interest in you, since I was with you at the ball."

"I greatly wonder why, milady."

"Why, my dear Jeanne, you were rescued by the Scarlet Pimpernel, were you not?"

The question startled Jeanne, though Marguerite had mentioned that rescuer in her note, and something else startled her even more. In Marguerite's eyes she detected something for which she could not explain.

"Yes I was," she replied.

The other smiled pleasantly.

"I was present at the narration of your adventure; I am only curious, and wished to talk to someone who has been in France these days." A slight lowering of the head in obvious shame showed Jeanne that Lady Blakeney was in earnest, and true to her birth-country.

"Is it as bad as many say it is?" Marguerite asked.

"Quite bad, I am afraid, milady. It seems as if it were hell itself there. It cannot be long till it will, at it's worse, suddenly fall into nothing," Jeanne added passionately.

"Let us all hope so!" cried Marguerite, her eyes shining with as much acute feeling. But she quickly composed herself. Jeanne next pursued the conversation about the Scarlet Pimpernel.

"Do you know anything about him?" she asked in innocent curiosity.

Lady Blakeney seemed astonished at these words, and for a moment a kind of flush swept across her young face.

"Why, no, my dear. Nothing, except that all England tries her best to find out who he is."

"He is English, is he not?"

"So I have heard tell—by the ones rescued by him, including yourself, Jeanne!"

"Yes; their accents seemed to be English, and they spoke it, too."

Jeanne was sure that her new friend held a secret, and kept it from her. She tried to wrest it unnoticeably from Marguerite, but, sly as she could ever be, Lady Blakeney was even slyer than Jeanne.

Therefore she gave up, and instead enjoyed the company of her new friend.

III

Almost as soon as Jeanne was shown out of Blakeney Manor, and the door was shut, then she heard the approaching sounds of a carriage coming up the drive. As it came into sight, Jeanne noticed it to be Sir Percy Blakeney's.

It stopped in front of her, and that gentleman stepped out.

"Lud! If it isn't one of the most newly arrived refugees from France!" cried he flippantly, tipping his hat in a most gentlemanly way and reaching for her hand.

"Mademoiselle Mange, if I am not mistaken?"

Jeanne replied in the affirmative, and just as she saw her own carriage approaching, she explained her presence at his estate.

"Ah?" remarked Sir Percy languidly, "yes, I do suppose she was a bit lonely here. Ah, is this your carriage? Good day, mademoiselle. I expect we shall meet with you at Sir Melville's ball tonight? Very good!" He concluded, carefully helping her into the carriage.

As Jeanne's carriage drove away, she saw Lady Blakeney run out of the house and the couple embraced lovingly.

Inside the carriage, her thoughts ran wild. She knew not what to think; she had thought that perhaps Lady Blakeney held a secret regarding the mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel; but then when she faced Sir Percy himself a distinctive something attracted her sensitive mind. For one thing she had found out that his love for his wife was hidden; it was quite obvious at parties and balls, where he regarded her with impassability. At last she concluded, and not without enthusiasm, that Sir Percy was playing a part—he was acting as in a play. She knew only too well that Sir Percy Blakeney was at least in contact with the Scarlet Pimpernel— or even in that elusive character's league!

Chapter Four

Chauvelin

I

As Jeanne walked through the great doors of Sir Melville's mansion she was once more faced with rich English possessions. And as she noticed the various French families come over from France, her heart suddenly longed more than ever for her own parents and sister still in dangerous France. She wondered where the Scarlet Pimpernel was, whether he was on his way to rescuing her family, or perhaps even on his way back with them.

She wondered why she was here, living in the midst of luxury, whilst her family was perhaps at risk of death across the channel.

With a sigh she concluded that she must live and be happy for them, until they were safe in England, and had evaded the cruel clutches of their home country and were safe in her arms. A silent prayer escaped her heart, begging her Lord to hurry their rescue.

"Mademoiselle!" turning, Jeanne was greeted by Sir Percy and Marguerite.

"How do you do this fine evening?" it was Sir Percy who spoke, as he put up his eye glass and examined her gown.

"Lud! How stunning you look, Mademoiselle. Does she not, m'dear?"

"Oh, yes!" replied Marguerite, smiling fondly on them both.

"But where is your chaperone, Jeanne?" she asked. "Have you not any friends in England?"

"No, my lady. Besides yourselves, I have not. But my family is to meet me here any day."

"Are they? Where from?"

"The Scarlet Pimpernel has sworn to me that he will save them from the horrors of France, and I have but to wait." She felt a quiver of longing cover her body.

"Oh my! I am sure you miss them cruelly, Jeanne!" cried Marguerite avidly, laying a considerate hand on her young friend's arm.

"Oh yes, I do. I watch for the day when they shall be here in England—safe."

Jeanne glanced at Sir Percy, and back at his wife. Though the former held his eyeglass in one eye and his lips were on the verge of repeating some sally, she could see some look—some feeling in those lazy blue eyes that seemed wholly unlike his public character. Jeanne could not explain that look, except that it was a look of pride mingled with passion.

The look was gone in an instant, but not before her keen mind had noted it and began the work of extorting the secret from it.

At that moment Lord Tony Dewhurst appeared.

"Why, good evening, Mademoiselle!" said he jovially.

"How are you enjoying yourself?"

"Quite well, Lord Tony. You are all too kind to me, a fugitive from France," Jeanne replied, smiling shamefacedly, though within herself she was remembering that he was one of those who had rescued her.

"Ah, nonsense!" exclaimed the worthy gentleman with a twinkle in his merry eye. He had forgotten their episode and wished not to recover it.

"Come, I will not have you thanking us too much! Do take my hand in dance."

She readily agreed. Though there had been an uncomfortable parting between them she resolved to forget it, seeing he was wholly determined in keeping the secret. It was not a friendship she was willing to forego only for something that troubled her.

Thus she left Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney's side cheerfully and full of conversation; but when Lord Tony brought her back to her party, she was not so merry. Something she had seen had spoiled her pleasure for the moment and made her feel suddenly insecure. In truth, she had caught notice amongst the crowd a pair of bony, malicious hands, and two steely, cruel grey eyes.

"Chauvelin!" she exclaimed within herself, as those same dangerous-looking eyes seemed to notice her and mock her alarm. As Lord Tony deposited her beside Lady Blakeney—Sir Percy had gone to play a hand of cards with His Royal Highness—she gazed with uneasiness across the room toward Citizen Chauvelin.

"Jeanne, my dear?" Marguerite inquired. "Are you well?"

"Oh—yes! Of course, milady." Jeanne quickly turned to her friend, trying to seem unruffled.

"But what were you looking at so awkwardly, my dear?"

Jeanne was sorry Marguerite had noticed her fear, and tried to divert her attention.

"Oh, nothing, Marguerite, I—I thought I had seen my family." She felt guilty to be telling a lie to the one who felt for her most, but told herself she surely did not want to spoil Marguerite's evening with the site of a dangerous citizen from France. Even without knowing of him—she thought Marguerite had not any acquaintance with him—Jeanne knew the features of Chauvelin would make anyone feel uneasy.

"Ah! I do hope the Scarlet Pimpernel brings them to you very soon."

At that moment Lord Hastings requested to dance with Marguerite, and Jeanne was left alone.

She noticed Chauvelin approaching her.

"Why, Mademoiselle Mange," he said slowly, as he drew close to her. "How do you do this evening?"

"Quite well, ci—monsieur Chauvelin."

A dry, rasping laugh escaped his bloodless lips.

"Quite alright to call me 'citizen', mademoiselle," he said in a coarse, amused tone of voice.

Jeanne, who hated Chauvelin more than any other Revolutionist besides Robespierre, but feared him even more, gathered her scattering courage. She convinced herself not to be afraid, for, she told herself, he could do no harm to her here in England without the public knowing and doing something about it.

"I prefer 'monsieur'," she said coldly. Chauvelin took the dart admiringly—he never flinched, but glanced toward Marguerite, who had just finished the dance with Lord Hastings and was walking toward them.

"Very well, Mademoiselle," he said. "I will take up no more of your time." With a slow, methodic bow and a contemptuous smile he walked away, just as the two approached. They had seen Chauvelin in conversation with Jeanne, and whispered a few hurried words to each other.

Jeanne did not notice their confidence, and was relieved when she saw them. Marguerite glanced toward Chauvelin's retreating figure, then turning to her friend, apparently unable to know what to say, at last spoke:

"Who was that, Jeanne?"

"Monsieur Chauvelin," replied Jeanne hesitatingly, while a shudder ran down her spine. Marguerite let out a nervous laugh, during which she glanced an entreating glance toward Lord Hastings.

"Ah, Chauvelin!" she cried pleasantly. "I have only met him once and found him very dull. He is not at all affable, indeed not! I am sure you were very bored in his company, were you not?"

"Yes," Jeanne managed to say clearly and with a smile. But something prevented her from shaking off the inevitable feeling of hate and fear for the man who had just walked away.

An awkward silence pursued for a moment or two, until Lord Hastings rescued them, changing the subject.

"Where is Sir Percy, Lady Blakeney? Is he in the card room? I noticed he is not making everyone laugh in _this_ room."

Lady Blakeney joined in his chuckle and replied, "Yes, he is playing a hand—or two—of cards with His Royal Highness. I do think he is in luck, he has stayed in there so long!"

Lady Blakeney and Lord Hastings turned to join Sir Percy, offering Jeanne to come with them. But she refused, making an excuse that she would like some quiet in an empty parlor.

"You are unwell, my dear!" cried Lady Blakeney concernedly.

"Indeed not, I have only had too much ballroom atmosphere for now."

"Would it be better if Lord Hastings called for your carriage?"

"Oh no!" replied Jeanne. "I will be well in a few moments."

In the end Jeanne persuaded Lady Blakeney that she was well enough to stay, and so Marguerite, arm in arm with Lord Hastings and in very high spirits, went to see what luck Sir Percy was in.

II

Jeanne, glad to be alone, made her way to an unused parlor. She had a slight head-ache, what with the recent events of the evening. Also she wanted to allow herself time to think, for what she had seen in Sir Percy's face more than once needed thinking about. Entering a dimly-lit parlor, where chairs disarranged marked the evidence of recent occupants, Jeanne placed herself in one with a sigh of reprieve.

Looking over the events of the time she had been in England and her rescue, she tried to piece together the puzzle that filled her mind.

"He can't be Lord Tony," she said reflectively. There was something about Lord Tony that wholly excluded the thought. He was a member indeed, one of those who had brought her safely across the channel, and even more had helped in deriving her from the fearsome clutches of her government; but he was not the Scarlet Pimpernel himself, but an instrument of that mysterious person—he himself had made that impression upon her.

Suddenly Jeanne was interrupted in her thoughts by a slight rustling sound which caught her ear. It was a movement of feet on the soft carpet, and as Jeanne looked toward the entrance to see who the intruder was she recognized her antagonizer from just a few minutes ago—it was Chauvelin.

"Mademoiselle," he said dryly. Jeanne felt a shiver run her spine at the word. He dared to call her mademoiselle!

She refrained from replying, so great was her resentment toward this blood-thirsty citizen from her beloved France; for she reflected that no coldness could express her antipathy.

At her silence Chauvelin smiled coolly—a dangerous cool, that made Jeanne look away much against her will.

"I was sorry not to have had much time for conversation with you, mademoiselle," he said finally, walking toward her slowly, as if he enjoyed taunting her with his meanness.

"I know Lady Blakeney is not so kindly disposed toward me any longer, and desired not to start a scandal on this fine evening."

His words puzzled Jeanne, who thought that Marguerite had never even heard of Chauvelin. She asked him in the coldest voice she could muster, all the while praying to God to give her mercy.

"What do you mean—monsieur?"

"What I mean is," said Chauvelin slowly and meditatively, "that my acquaintance with Lady Blakeney has, over the years, gone cold. I would not wish to excite your bewilderment, mademoiselle, and so I will enlighten you."

He paused, and scrutinized Jeanne's face for any emotion therein. Indeed, Jeanne tried her best to hide the feeling of amazement from spreading over her features. More than that, a sense of wonder of what Chauvelin spoke of as their acquaintance "going cold" possessed her and gave her an impulse to know more.

But she would not allow Chauvelin to witness her eagerness. Silently she waited, for she would not speak for fear she would give him an idea of what she felt.

She was not long in waiting.

"Indeed, mademoiselle, we have known each other for quite some years. We were friends, I suppose, until she married our gallant Sir Percy Blakeney whom you hear now." Something in Chauvelin's voice told Jeanne of jealousy and hate. She could hear just then, at Chauvelin's mention, the sound of Sir Percy's voice repeating for the hundredth time his infamous poem about the Scarlet Pimpernel, and a peal of laughter and clapping as soon as he recited the last line. Jeanne could not help but role her eyes at the devil-may-care manner of Sir Percy as she listened.

Chauvelin, though fortunately he did not catch the last look in Jeanne's eyes, smiled bitterly at the ghost of a smile that passed over Jeanne's face. Then he continued, weighing every ounce of his words as he spoke them.

"Sir Percy is rich, I dare say, and handsome. More than rich, for if he were only rich and not wealthy, his efforts in his joyous pastime would be futile."

"What do you mean?" asked Jeanne, so quickly and eagerly that she blushed and turned away so as not to allow Chauvelin to see her.

"Only that it would interest you to know," began Chauvelin, speaking his words even slower and surer, and smiling the same bitter smile all the while,

"That Sir Percy is none other than the Scarlet Pimpernel."

The effect he had desired to make on his victim certainly paid off. Jeanne's face at first appeared red then became suddenly white. Her eyes at first spoke of unbelief, but then they became hard and cold. She would not permit Chauvelin's steely gray eyes to perceive that she believed him.

"It is only too true, I am afraid, mademoiselle," she heard Chauvelin's voice above the din of her own thoughts. "Perhaps he would not mind a small _aide memoire_ in regards to your family back in France." He paused once more, studying Jeanne's face for feeling before he continued.

"For, I am sorry to inform you, your family has been arrested on charge of treason only yesterday."

With that he stood, and without a word or bow, left Jeanne alone, a million thoughts chasing each other across her weary mind.

III

Jeanne, as soon as Chauvelin was out of sight, immediately let her emotions run free. Now that she was alone once more, she spoke in a whisper to herself, only this time she was in an agony of mixed feelings.

"It can't be true! It can't!" she told herself over and over, but to no avail. Chauvelin would be right this time, though she wanted not to believe it having heard it from those bloodless, wicked lips.

"Oh God, help me!" she cried. For some reason she was sorry she had found out what had filled her mind ever since she had been rescued by him—"Sir Percy?—the Scarlet Pimpernel?" She tried to convince herself that it was not true, that Chauvelin—for some absurd reason—had lied to her. But no; the Scarlet Pimpernel was too important a matter for Chauvelin—who, she happened to know, had once been on a very high seat in the Committee of Public Safety until an attempt to capture the Scarlet Pimpernel had lowered him considerably in his position. He would not play around with the fact of his identity. And Jeanne seemed to remember a rumor that went around in her home town—Calais—that Citizen Chauvelin held the secret to the Scarlet Pimpernel's identity.

In bewilderment she tried to piece everything together, but it seemed too trivial to do so; for the facts stared her in the face with so much meaning that she at last gave up the attempt. Sir Percy Blakeney, Baronet, who stood even now joking in the other room, had written the note to her which even now she could feel close to her heart beneath her chiffon. He had promised more than a week ago in writing to bring her family safely back to England; her beloved family whom, Chauvelin had just made light to her, had been arrested and even now awaited the fate of the guillotine. And his wife, the sensitive and beautiful Lady Blakeney who had just befriended her—Jeanne had been so puzzled at the attention with which Sir Percy was treated by Marguerite. She had wondered why Marguerite looked at him with shining, proud eyes, with some secret in them that now she—Jeanne—knew.

Dared he—dared Sir Percy to stand so care-free, repeating sallies and jokes, knowing that the girl to whom he promised a safe return of her family was in sole agony of their fate? He must know that she awaited their return with bated breath. He must have seen the longing in her eyes when she told Lady Blakeney where her family was. At last Jeanne concluded that Sir Percy—the Scarlet Pimpernel—did not care so much to devote all his time to the rescue of her family.

With shaking hands Jeanne pulled out her handkerchief, hardly expecting to find any tears on her face, but there was; indeed, why should she weep? Why should she, who had desired to know the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel, and who now she found did not keep to his promise—why should she be sorry? His folly in forgetting about his promise would mean the death of her family; she would never see them again, because the Scarlet Pimpernel had not stayed in France and kept his promise to her. What a fool she was, she told herself, to weep in this knowledge! She knew now that which she had tried to wrest from Sir Anthony Dewhurst—and how much that knowledge would do for her! Now that she knew that the Scarlet Pimpernel would not hold to his promise she dare not waste a moment. She knew there was nothing else to do but to bring them herself—though she knew how feeble she was in that way, she knew that with the help of her Lord and with anything He chose to throw in her way—please God He would!—she would bring them home herself, albeit she died with them. How much better that would be than to live knowing they were dead!


	2. Part 2

Part Two

Chapter Five

The Shores of Calais

Had Jeanne witnessed the look on Chauvelin's features as he left her alone in the parlor her plans perhaps would not have been so desperate. Perhaps they would; we shall never know.

For she did not see the expression of satisfaction on her late antagonizer's face, as he walked out of the empty parlor after completing his ghastly business. In truth, his face in that moment of triumph was so considerably changed for the better that many who saw his entrance into the ballroom actually deemed him cheerful.

He had let out his secret to one whose silence he knew he could trust in. His hard, cold grey eyes showed his contentment in knowing that Jeanne, if not an ally, he had found a tool to the accomplishing of his own ends. She would go back to France, he was almost certain; with the information he had given her she would undoubtedly, seeing the behavior of the supposed rescuer of her family and their condition now,-- she would of no doubt seek them out herself whether she secured help or not. Chauvelin had been willing to sacrifice the letting out of his well-guarded secret to her to give her the idea that Sir Percy was in truth an idiotic fop—who wouldn't care less for the fate of her family. Chauvelin had—in knowing Jeanne was going to France—he had an assurance that as soon as Sir Percy, the Scarlet Pimpernel, learned of her departure, would of a surety follow her there, and then—well, he had better save that wonderful thought till a better time when he would be at leisure to relish it's every detail.

So stepping into the ball room he at once came into view of Sir Percy himself: eye-glass in place, posed most stupidly, he was in the throws of some infamous sally—or even a concoction of his own.

His wife could be seen across the room, engaged in an animated conversation with Lady Ffoukes. Her smiling features and shining eyes for a moment—only a moment—shot a pang of jealousy through Chauvelin's pleasure. But glancing back at Sir Percy—the Scarlet Pimpernel, his arch-rival and most hated enemy—the feeling of complete satisfaction returned in full gusto. He glanced behind him at the dark entrance-way of the parlor he had just left, and smiled crudely. The girl sitting in there was the key to his success, and he was only too sure she would follow through with his plans.

II

The sound of loud laughter issuing from the ballroom woke Jeanne out of her cheerless reverie. With a start she remembered the recent events, and at the memory of Chauvelin she cringed. But when the recollection of her decision presented itself she was as resolute as she had been when she made it. Help or no help, she would find her family, and either bring them herself back to England or die with them. The Scarlet Pimpernel she no more looked on with awe or admiration, but with despise and something of resentment. He was not keeping his promise; it had been two weeks, and now it was too late, she reasoned, for him to do anything. With her there was some chance. She did not count on influence with the Committee of Public Safety—indeed, she knew it to be so futile—no, she would use other means, of which she knew nothing just yet. The only weapons she had were her Lord, and her brains. She had a profound faith in the former, Who, she convinced herself, would not be so barbaric as to separate her from her dear family. She would trust to His help to bring her family safely across the channel.

In ten minutes she had told Lady Blakeney and her husband goodbye and was at the great doors of Lord Melville's mansion. The cool, summer air brushing across her hot cheeks for a moment gave her a sense of well-being, but as she plumped herself wearily on the carriage seat she sighed. Gazing at the mansion she had just left, she found herself hoping that the Scarlet Pimpernel would keep his promise. Would he leave tonight or tomorrow for France? Jeanne gave up, and, leaning back in her seat, told herself he would not hurry, now that it would seem too late for him.

III

On the calm waters of the channel a ship bound for France sailed four days later. Jeanne, standing upon the deck, was watching the shores of England slip away. But it was hardly of that safe and secure country that she thought of; indeed, her thoughts were placed steadily in Amiens, France, the city of her family's residence, and once, hers.

She was dressed in uncommon ragged clothes—an old dress she had worn on that fatal day when the Scarlet Pimpernel, now so despised in her mind, had freed her from the jaws of death, dirty and worn from many a month's wearing—and the shoes, worn through the sole and with many holes. She had in her pocket a passport with the name Adel Confere written on it in place of her own. The reason for entering into France: to visit family. Even if she was arrested, she would perhaps meet with her family, but always know that she would meet them in Heaven in the end. Such a grim outlook was not her own, but was the result of many a weeping back in England before she boarded this ship taking her back into danger.

She cared not for herself; it was her family who was in danger, and why should she let them die while she lived in safety and luxury in England? In the parlor at Melville Mansion she had made up her mind that she would use any means—however feeble—to save her family as she had been saved. Had she known that the Scarlet Pimpernel himself was at this moment in France—we must only guess. For her fellow passengers on the ship—who were few, I assure you—saw that in her eyes which made advice futile.

So she stood against the railing once more, her hair once more blowing in the salt-sea air, and her eyes, more or less emotional, fixed upon the shores of England, now a mere speck on the horizon. She stood there for five minutes or more, when the sound of a familiar voice caused her to turn her head. She saw only a man, dressed in hideous breeches and shirt with open collar, talking moodily with another very similarly dressed. His voice sounded surprisingly alike Chauvelin's four nights ago, but looking at the ragged breeches and his companion, Jeanne was convinced that it was not he.

She turned back to the sea, now a beautiful reflection of peach, for the sun was now setting. Jeanne's eyes were dazzled with the shrewd colors of peach and blue side by side and the large, eternal orange ball in the middle of it all. Waves of blue and light orange clouds finished the picture, and the light from it all delicately touched the ship and everything on its deck. Taking one last look at this alluring scene, Jeanne turned under-deck. Had she turned her head one moment before she went down, she would have been met with two triumphant, steely grey eyes looking at her from under the mask of the roughly-clad citizen.

IV

"Passports! Passports, if you please!" rang the shrill voice of the man who stood as barrier to enter the land of France. Though that country welcomed any she could get to close her jaws upon, this one small requirement was set as a mock filter. One by one, the few brave passengers of the ship disembarked and presented their respective passports. Jeanne was let in with a nod and a wave of a dirty hand, her passport being retained "for further inspection." Curiously this was the explanation for all passports presented and kept.

The time was evening of the same day, and in the stuffy, summer night air Jeanne let her shawl hang limp about her arms. She looked back only once toward the calm and unruffled sea, now dark and almost invisible against the black sky. Turning southward once more, she induced herself not to be afraid.

A chill ran down her spine against her will as she surveyed the country of her birth: it was as she had left it, more or less in a state of poverty and filth. Her eyes went over the landscape of poorly-built houses, run down to shacks; the usual mixture of fairly-dressed and rag-clad citizens going about their daily chores. The spectacle was pitiful. Jeanne walked on and did not turn her head to the right or left, for it was too painful to bear. She said nothing, but in her mind she was pleading with God to save her beloved France from the ruins this horrible Revolution had made of it. The faces of her fellow Frenchmen and women were sullen, sad and pale, with no light in them whatsoever. In her ragged clothes Jeanne fit in with the scene, so that none could guess that she had less than a week since stood in a fashionable English drawing room and had intercourse with the wife of one of the richest men in that country.

She walked, whether or not she had planned to, toward the place she had called home when she had lived in France, before the Revolution had taken her away from them on the evidence of a supposed friend. As she neared it, stirring memories flooded her: memories of her older sister, their sister-to-sister talks sitting beneath the shade of the trees that surrounded their humble abode… her mother, kind, gentle, and reassuring, concerned for her family's welfare in every way; and her father, steadfast as a rock, unbending, yet with an ability to make her and her sister feel as safe as they could ever be when he was there, or close by.

As the memory of her family came back to her, Jeanne felt her eyes becoming misty. She did not realize how much she loved and missed them until now: in all the events of the past 2 weeks she had thought of them, longed for their presence, and prayed for them; but not until now did she long so much to be with them, to share their every trial, to go with them to the death. She blamed herself tremendously now for not coming to them sooner, and blamed even more the Scarlet Pimpernel for taking her away from them.

A bend in the road hid the house from her view; she walked faster, a sudden feeling of a compelling desire to meet with them overcoming her.

The house she approached was even more run-down than the others she had passed… vines made their way up the rotten walls; the whole aspect was as if none lived there, and for more than a moment Jeanne feared what she had in her heart tried to make herself believe: that they had indeed been arrested and sent to prison… perhaps…

No! For there was one sign of life, at least. Her heart beat a mile a minute as she surveyed the wreck. As she neared the faulty walls she suddenly perceived a small light through the broken glass of a window.

She rushed in, crying at the same moment "Papa! Oh, papa!" For in the window she had seen the round, sturdy head of that rock which she had leaned on so many occasions, when she doubted the safety of their home.

He was sitting at a rickety desk, and seemed to be reading. As she ran in and shouted his name he turned quickly around, and for a few moments the two faced each other without a word.

"Who are you?" asked her father, still sitting, with one hand on the open book, a stern look in his eyes.

"Oh papa!" cried Jeanne, bursting into tears, and throwing her arms round his neck. For a few minutes she wept on his shoulder, and within that time the father recognized something in her touch of that in his youngest daughter.

"Jeanne?" he said quietly, pulling her head off his shoulder to look into her eyes.

"Yes, papa! It is I. I should never have left you… I am here now… we will go to England now!"

At the mention of "go" and "England" the other suddenly clasped his hand over her mouth and pulled her violently into a darker corner of the room.

"You must never speak so!" He said fiercely, "Not here!"

She leaned back against the wall, terrified at this sudden ferocious movement. For a few moments she gazed at that face which she had not seen in a month, and he back at her; the fierce and fearful look in his eyes faded away, and sorrow replaced them. He released his hold on her mouth and raised her to her full height.

"It is not safe," he sighed.

"Forgive me, Papa," replied Jeanne faintly, a tear still lingering in her eye.

"I was excited, nothing more. But where is maman, and Adel?" She asked the question quickly and suddenly, but the effect on her father was more sorry than glad.

"This house…" he began, as he moved away, his voice now a mere whisper.

"It is empty… I live here alone…"

"Papa!" cried Jeanne, running to him once more, "What do you mean? Have they…"

Her father replied sadly in the affirmative.

"Yes… a week since… because of you… I was away, so they missed me…"

He seemed so altered in his ways, so feeble since she last met him, that Jeanne fell back away from him almost in alarm.

"They took them?" she asked bluntly.

"Yes."

It was silent for almost a minute. Jeanne, standing some distance from her father, deliberately held back tears that demanded to fall. Her father, driven almost to his grave by all of the misfortunes that had befallen him, stood still, for he had already wept for their loss.

Jeanne felt as if the world lay in crumbles before her feet; the only thing dear to her left, she thought, was her father, and they were alone in the world, until it pleased the Committee of Public Safety to arrest them both and at last end their miserable, unhappy life.

But no! as she thought, the memory of that night alone in the empty parlor, of her resolute decision to save her family at any cost, suddenly presented itself to her… Chauvelin and his evil ways were oblivious to her now; all that mattered now was saving her family from the clutches of death. The Scarlet Pimpernel had no thought in her mind. She had forgotten him and his league by now, and the rescue they had effected to save her. She despised him, and therefore forgot everything concerning him. She and her father would find her mother and Adel, and if God willed would escape the terrors of the Revolution, and go to live with friends in England, without another thought or tribute to the Scarlet Pimpernel.

"Papa!" she said suddenly.

"Yes, Jeanne?" replied her father gravely, in a voice that sounded afar off.

"They are not doomed, papa. We will find them, and save them… we will not let this hindrance defeat us." She whispered now, ever so quietly and as she did so she neared him and turned shining eyes up at his.

"But, Jeanne, the Scarlet Pimpernel—" began her father, likewise in a hardly-audible whisper, but was interrupted passionately.

"the Scarlet Pimpernel!" cried she, ridicule plainly heard in her voice.

"He is no more capable of saving them as ever I was; his promises are futile, papa. If you really believed in him you would not have been so heartbroken at the arrest of maman and Adel. He is not so wonderful as you think. He cares less of us all than he does of his disguises. He promised to save you all, but now that maman and Adel are arrested he can do next to nothing. With us there is a small chance, and we are bound to try. At least we would be together when…" her whisper faded into silence as the realization of that awful fate dawned itself upon her. To die with her family had not seemed so acute, but to die that death on the horrible guillotine…

But this unpleasant thought was as quickly discarded from Jeanne's mind. She would not allow her hopefully-successful, though risky plan to be thwarted in face of this one small, insignificant obstacle. If indeed they must die that terrible death on the scaffold, she would die bravely, knowing she and her family would meet in Heaven and live together with their Lord forever.

Her voice as she recommenced was more determined.

"We would die together if our plan does not succeed. The horrible revolution itself cannot prevent us from seeking our freedom. Papa, come!" she said passionately, as she could see doubt in the eyes of her parent.

"What would maman and Adel think if we forfeited this once chance to save them? The tribunal takes it's time in condemning and executing France's people; I am sure we have a chance of finding them yet alive. You and I are their only chance to live, Papa."

She held both the arms of his sleeves now; her eyes, bright and ardent, looked into his; he looked back into them, and almost smiled within himself at the young, zealous, and childish eyes of his daughter.

"We can but try—with God's help—for them," he said, gravely but hopefully.

Then the two embraced.


	3. Chapter Six

Note from the author: Thank you all for your patience in waiting for the next part. I have been very busy and haven't had time to write much. I re-organized the parts for easier reading, and followed your advise to shorten chapter two. Enjoy and review away! Thank you. -E. E. (or Melody)

Chapter Six

Failure

I

As the sun rose the next morning Jeanne had already awaken and was sitting under the shady grove behind their small cottage. The morning was glorious, but to enjoy it one must go out of the city, away from the dirt and filth. Here Jeanne could enjoy the soft breezes of summer away from the blazing hot sun. Here she could consult her own thoughts, away from the depressing little broken down cottage that spoke so much of past family memories.

Her much-worn Bible lay open on her lap, and she drank in the soothing words with her eyes as tears filled them unceasingly.

"_Truly my soul waiteth upon God: from him cometh my salvation. He only is my rock and my salvation; He is my defence; I shall not be greatly moved."_

The words were balm to her aching soul, courage to her fading hope. Her Lord would defend her in her right attempt to save the lives of her mother and sister. Though tribunals, guards, and even death came, He would not allow them to be separated. She knelt down over a stump and prayed to her Lord for help.

Then she stood, and surveyed the quiet woods. The trees, full grown and in their brightest green array, shaded the ferns and wild flowers below. It all created a heavenly prospect, but to Jeanne's mind it was only a wood, through which she and her family would escape.

"No trouble through this!" she said to herself joyfully, walking a little ways into the green patch, her eyes darting about watching for any open spaces. But there were none, and she continued on until it grew too long for her to go on.

It was just as she wished. It was long, with tangled brier and hundreds of plants covering the forest floor. Through this they would go straight through and thus escape the search of the guards. She walked back toward the little cottage with a glad, courageous feeling in her heart, and as soon as she reached the rundown building she rushed in to her father.

He was as usual sitting reading the only book he had in his possession: the Bible. Jeanne had always admired him for his great faith in that One who now only could save them all. She interrupted his reading by kneeling by him and taking hold of his limp hand.

"Papa," she said quietly. She knew how much his nerves were upset, so she spoke quietly and gently.

"Yes, my dear?" he said, turning to face her. He tightly squeezed her hand and then stroked her dark hair gently.

She now spoke in a very quiet whisper which only he could hear.

"I have found our escape rout—through the woods behind the cottage. You know where they lead?" She waited for his answer anxiously.

"Yes," he replied, "through to the outskirts of Calais."

The answer was just as she had hoped it would be. Before the revolution had come her father had been wont to traverse the woods—it was one of his favorite pastimes. Now his knowledge of them was a vital factor in the success of their escape. Jeanne in an ecstasy of joy embraced her father.

"We shall soon be safe from these Revolutionists, papa," she said in the loudest whisper she would dare, "we shall take mamman and Adel out of the lions den."

II

That very night the little cottage stood empty and deserted, except for the scurrying of rats and mice on the rotting floorboards. The cool night wind gently blew through the trees and almost brought back the peace and bliss of past days.

In the dark shadow of a street house Jeanne shuddered, but not because of the wind. She looked about her in awe at the darkness around her, but did not move. Across the street a building stood looming out large in the darkness. It was the prison in which her mother and sister were confined.

For a moment Jeanne hesitated; then she ran swiftly, like a fleeting bird in the night, across the street and into the shadow of that building, her breath coming in gasps.

But at this critical moment all Jeanne's courage was stripped from her. She suddenly broke out into a cold sweat, and as she surveyed with quivering hands and unsteady eyes the foreboding doors before her she all of a sudden did not know what to do. The doors were locked, nay, bolted shut, and she, a feeble girl with hardly any strength, had one to a hundred chances of opening one. As these thoughts flooded in through her mind she slowly sunk to the ground in deep mortification. This she had not reckoned on in her excited plans of escape. She saw absolutely no chance of getting within the prison.

In this state she remained, too deep in her own sorrowful thoughts to pay attention to anything else, even the threatening darkness. She waited, for nothing in particular, hardly wishing for some miracle to let her into those forbidding walls and into the prison cell of her mother and sister.

Suddenly Jeanne's acute hearing detected the sound of footsteps walking slowly but not stealthily. Her heart gave a leap and stood still while she looked up and beheld distinctly in the dark night a short, wizened figure approaching the doors by which she cowered. A sharp nose and two evil grey eyes shot through the night like a knife through her breast. Chauvelin!

At first he did not see her. Crouching within the darkest shadows, Jeanne held her breath as if it depended on her life. And she felt it did. Chauvelin approached the entrance, took out a large ring of keys, and proceeded to unlock one of the doors. In spite of her utter fear Jeanne saw the advantage of this opportunity, however risky. Here as a chance she had not dared to hope for, --though she had had no idea how she would get within the prison walls—and however frightened she was, she took it. She waited for Chauvelin to go behind the door to shut it, and then slipped in, making no sound whatever as she glided across the stone floor.

Bt what she did not know was that those steely grey eyes had already detected her crouching figure in the dark and had let her in on purpose. With the slam of the heavy door cam his scrutinizing features peering at her though the darkness. Against her will she shuddered until her whole body shook with fear and trembling.

"My dear mademoiselle," said a cold, cruel voice, which pierced the dark like a razor.

"How very pleasant it is to find you here!"

III

Jeanne shuddered once more. She dare not look into the face of her capturer—for indeed he was. Jeanne knew that too well—she was caught like a rat in a trap, and the only difference was that she had walked into the trap willingly and, for the most part with a sound mind.

She cowered before the malicious grey eyes which looked her over with exultant satisfaction. The silence, which lasted only a few minutes, agonized Jeanne until she thought she should go mad with terror. It was finally, but mercilessly, broken by Chauvelin, whose eyes never left her for a moment.

"I must say I expected you," he said, whilst slowly tucking the ring of keys within his belt, as if wishing her to feel the effect of being locked in forever—and in his hands.

"I knew only too well when your gallant Scarlet Pimpernel's secret was out," he continued, "that you would no doubt take it upon yourself to aid him. I admire your bravery."

In the dark, forbidding corridor the two remained for several moments, the one stooping in fear and helplessness, the other towering over her in the utmost triumph. Jeanne's eyes in spit of herself filled with tears at the thought of her father, who, wholly unsuspecting, would be arrested on the morrow—and all because of her—her stupidity, her inexperience, her utter failure! How would he bear it? His nerves, tried to the utmost, would now break altogether under this last and ultimate trial. Under this man's cruel mercy her whole family's lives were doomed. Not only her mother and sister, but now she and her father would share their fate.

But Jeanne, determined in the midst of her deepest sorrow, would not be put down. She herself had made up her mind before ever she left England, — safe, caring, sympathetic England! — that if God so willed that they should not live to see freedom again, she would die with them.

Therefore in this mind she bore with comparative serenity the rough pushes the soldiers gave her as they led her down the long, cold hall, and down below into the prison of the dead.


	4. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Dejection

I

As a soldier of the Republic pushed open the door of the cell Jeanne's courage was put to the cruelest test. Her smarting eyes, not used yet to the darkness of the dungeon, were met with a dark inner room, cold and unwelcoming, pitiably small and cold. Several wretched prisoners crouched in the corners, and did not even look up as the heavy door was opened. Jeanne, looking in, felt as though she could scream in anguish. Roughly she was pushed in and the heavy door slammed shut, making her start as if from a dream. Could she be alone in here, her plan failed? It could not be!

She had doomed her own father, as good as killed him with her own hands, because of her own selfish ambitions, her unreasonable, misguided determination to save her mother and sister—a goal, she now understood, which was futile in the extreme. Oh! How her shame made her face become as crimson as ever, her eyes fill rapidly with mortified tears, as the horrible reality dawned itself upon her. She tottered; fell to the ground, and on her knees, her hands covering her streaming face in utter remorse, she wept bitterly, caring not whether or not the soldiers or even Chauvelin heard her sorrow, her thorough, deep regret, at what she had done to lead her father at last to his grief-stricken grave.

In this state Jeanne remained for close on ten minutes. For half the time she had stopped her weeping, but for the whole sat oblivious to everything except to her sorrow. The prison was deadly still and quiet. Only the occasional sound of soldiers' feet on the stone floor disturbed the silence. At last, she turned her tear-stained face toward heaven.

For a few moments only the foot-fall and laughter of the jailers could be heard, joking and conversing to keep from utter boredom. But the room was silent to her senses. She could not hear the jailers, nor did she hear the even breathing of her fellow prisoners. Her eyes looked toward and beyond the stone, forbidding ceiling. Her lips moved as she murmured a silent prayer, asking for forgiveness. Tears began to drop onto her folded hands, but she did not notice, nor did she care.

She knelt there for many minutes more; during most of the time she said nothing, only looked upward, gazing intently as if she saw a vision. And perhaps she did.

II

The following morning Jeanne was awakened by a violent shove of the bayonet on her shoulder. She lay on the stone floor, for there was no cot left for her. She woke, thus startled, and looked up at the man looming above her.

"Citizen Chauvelin wishes for your presence," said that shabby-clothed jailer.

"Ye're to come with me. Up with you! We haven't got all day."

With his spare arm he lifted her, holding her as if she were an unclean thing. Jeanne all the while prayed fervently for help, though she did not think He could help her now. She found herself hoping for revenge on these men for their rough treatment of her.

The jailer, joined by two others, directed her through the evil-smelling hall and stopped at a piece of wood hung by two weak hinges, which could hardly be called a door. On this they rapped with their bayonets a trifle less violent than usual, and were, after some minutes, during which a commotion went on within, admitted.

At a desk scattered with papers sat Chauvelin. His mocking, cruel eyes pierced Jeanne through and through and she could hardly prevent herself from blushing crimson with embarrassment. As soon as the guards left the room he said,

"Pray sit down, citizeness."

Another man stood beside Chauvelin's chair, gloating over Jeanne as she sat down, wondering greatly why this cruel member of the Committee of Public Safety was so interested in her and her family's fate.

He seemed to guess her puzzlement for, regarding her with triumphant eyes, he began immedietly.

"You must wonder, citizeness," he said, "why, when other such pretty prisoners are now residing in this prison on which I could exercise my authority, I should choose you and your family. It is quite simple—so simple, that I would not wish you to be left in the dark on this matter of grave importance—a matter which, unfortunately, has doomed your family, unless you choose to save them."

The reader can only guess Jeanne's bewilderment. Watching her adversary as he spoke, she noted the quick, final tattoo he played with his fingers on the desk before him, and the evil, dominant look in both hi and his assistant's eyes. She only just refrained herself from asking him what he meant; she knew her anxiousness would only add to his triumph—which, she prayed fervently, would be only temporary.

Chauvelin fingered some of the scattered papers before him slowly. Then, looking up, as if just recollecting her presence, he spoke, letting out the words so that each held its full meaning.

"I have many duties here serving my country, citizeness. Many of them are rather tedious, so that when a diversion comes my way, --which is few and far between, I assure you—it eases the monotony of my work—though, because it is the work of serving my country and building our republic, I enjoy it all the same.

You will understand more fully, then, when I say that when such a diversion came my way, I siezed upon it most gladly, more so, as it involved my country's establishing a new republic."

He paused, scrutinizing her face; but she betrayed nothing. While he spoke she had regained composure, and now sat, silent and patiently listening.

"Every aristocrat and peasant alike we arrest, we do our best to preserve the republic by ridding it of those most dangerous to its constituting. Otherwise, 'beloved France' as some affectionately name it, is doomed. That is where your family comes in, citizeness…"

Just then the door opened behind her and a commanding figure entered the room.

"Citizen Robspierre has a desire to meet with you."

A moment, and he was gone, Chauvelin's spare figure walking ahead of him in seeming authority. She was taken back to the cell, where wild, confusing thoughts possessed her for many an hour.

III

In the cold cell things were more confused than ever. The words Chauvelin had spoken in triumph were jumbled up in Jeanne's mind so that, by next morning, she could not recollect what he had said. She knew this much: that something she or her family had done had fired up a more deadly hatred and want of revenge in Chauvelin. By the aid of her stupidity and ignorance, he tortured them and would continue to until, at last, they were wiped from the earth on the days he should choose.

She felt now more hopeless than ever. The plan that failed had left her in a state of dejection, with only a faint glimmer of hope for their salvation; this final doom to her family with no possible chance of escape, left her to feel God-forsaken and helpless—the world itself, with hospitable England and poor France, seemed to have vanished from her mind. Now only the fate of her family—whom she had hardly seen in two months— lay heavily on her mind—for they would all die separately; Chauvelin himself would see to that. He would not allow a single factor of his revenge—for whatever they had done, Jeanne racked her brain in vain to know—to go untasted by his victims. He was a cruel, evil man! She thought, vainly trying to refrain her anger and remorse to stay within her and not burst forth. She did not notice the fellow prisoner's inquiring, and unkind, eyes turned on her dejected, wholly pitiful figure, of which they had never seen much before. Her whole figure dropped, her eyes never left the ground.

One guard, a trifle less unkind than the rest, had, as he let her in, whispered a few rough words of grim comfort; which she, in her most deep sorrow, thought nothing of as she swam in tears of despair:

"Stranger things have happened, citizeness…"

Chapter 8

An "Either-Or"

I

As Jeanne lived in utter despair, her mother and sister awaited a final death, when, they knew not. Chauvelin still lingered with them, and they knew not when he would send them separately to their doom. But even in this utmost uncertainty and cruelty to their health and minds in his waiting, it could not rob them of their peace. Unlike Jeanne, her mother and sister had found peace in their awaiting fate. They had commended their souls to Hgim, and now they looked forwad to the day when they would leave all sorrow and tears behind. They did not know of their daughter and sister's arrest, nor opf the father's imp3ending, perhaps expired danger. But, mayhap if they had known it, they would have rejoiced all the more to meet with them in Heaven, rather than leaving them on earth to mourn their premature death.

Of the Scarlet Pimpernel perhaps saving them from their fate they had not a glimmer of hope. The stone walls and metal bars themselves, they knew, could not separate then from God; but how, short of a miracle directly from heaven, could they be saved now by that mysterious personage and his league? They were beyond help now. They had been suddenly taken from their innocent home, wrenched from the father and all they knew and loved well. Nearly two weeks they had remained here in a prison without setting eyes on a kindly human face. What now was left for them but to wait for that glorious day, when they would be free from all pain and heartache?

In England Lady Blakeney still awaited the return of Sir Percy—gone hunting wild game in the Netherlands, it was known. But his hunt must have been poor in the week he was gone, for he sent home a carrier apologizing for his delay, while begging permission to stay at least another three days to catch a particular species of an animal which he could not possible miss.

This information, his lady related to the public with half a sigh, a giggle, and a well-wishing for his safe return whenever he felt it convenient.

But we know better. Marguerite, in that tolerant half-sigh, felt she could have held it out its full length, so great was her longing for her husband's return. And benearth that well-bred giggle, her heart bled anew to know ought of his whereabouts and what dangers he faed daily while she played a part here in, to her aching heart, play-like England. His letter—or rather, notes—seemed as far away as France was to her—a word or two of his progress, and even less of his prospect of return. He was once again the huntsman, the adventurer set out to risk his life or the fun and thrill of it. She dare not write a letter of pleading, for she knew from experience its futileness. In France all ties and English duties were lost to him. All she could do was to pray fervently for his safety, and wait patiently for his return.—Nay! Would he return? Could France hold him any longer and let him go once more? She knew God's mercy and lovingkindess could not suffer her to be heart-broken, in the full sense of the word—surely, surley He would save her from such a tragedy!

But wait. She was getting ahead of herself—of God. Did He not know her heartache, her longing, her agony? Had He not suffered His only Son's death by a raging crowd much like that in France these days? Surely He knew her anxiety, which was little compared to His great sorrow.

Her aching heart at last rested in His knowing hands, and she surrendered her husband's soul to Him, though she did it not without many tears.

II

Jeanne id not know peace so soon. Her confusion was great on the subject of Chauvelin's desire of revenge on her and her family. Two days had passed since she had almost heard of it, and he had not returned to finish his story. She dreaded hearing his vent, and at the same time longed to find what had caused her family's being preyed upon ultimately captured by that human wolf. She must admit it—she hated Chauvelin. His face alone, shrinking, evil-looking, triumphant, turned her sick to the stomach. Whilst one part of her battled for peace and forgiveness, the other revolted against it, demanding to repay Chauvelin for his evil ways. Her family had done nothing to deserve this treatment. Why should they be singled out for his cruelty?

The loud clang of the heavy door suddenly woke Jeanne out of her confused reverie. Jeanne remained in her crouching position until a guard's overpowering figure stood above her.

"You are wanted," he said groughly, and taking her by the arm, led her out of the cell, many eyes turned toward her inquiringly.

She did not shudder as they thought she would upon entering the room and meeting her captor's triumphant eyes. For a moment she was back in the silence of the sitting room, the faint note of a minuet drifting toward it, soothing her ruffled spirites—and then the same evil eyes, taunting her, deceiving her into risking her life in a hopeless endeavor.

Was Sir Percy Blakeney _really_ the Scarlet Pimpernel? She asked herself this question a thousand times, and always answered that Chauvelin, cruel and perverted as he was, would not tell such a ghastly lie. She had seen the genuine hate in his eyes as he repeated the name—"Sir Percy Blakeney"—the illustrious English fop and dandy—the richest man in that country. Yes, she could not convince herself otherwise—he _was_ the Scarlet Pimpernel. Then why had not he saved her family? If he professed to hold such a name that promised such hope and security, why had he forfeited his promise?

The grating of a chair against the stone floor interrupted her tangled thoughts. She did not meet the steely grey eyes as she sat down, her heart beating wildly.

"Accept my most humble apolagies for the interruption at our last meeting," said Chauvelin.

"I fear you were left at quite an inconvenient part of my explanation. Pray make yourself comfortable." His keen eyes followed her every movement, however slight, as she accepted a tin cup of weak coffee from the assistant.

At last, fingering once more the papers on his desk, leaving his coffee to cool off as he spoke, he began.

"I am surprised, citizeness, that your father never told you. I have had the pleasure of looking through cetain documents in our possession… but I am too hasty.

As I stated at our last meeting, your family has become a vital factor in the preservation of our new republic. I know, when you hear its importance, you will readily agree to its necessity."

He stopped and looked keenly at her; greed and utter triumph shone plainly in his eyes, so that Jeanne turned away. Her temper was at its shortest, and in the coldest tones she could summon, betraying no anxiousness, she said:

"Pray come to the point, monsieur."

"Certainly, citizeness… I would not wish to take up your time… the point is, the family of Mange is one which is distantly—though closely enough—related to the late royal family of Louis XVI… you realize how dangerous it would be to the Republic to allow any of that family—especially if they are poor—to roam the country freely."

The words, individually spoken so that each echoed across the stone walls, pressed a cold clutch on Jeanne's beating heart. She did not have to look at Chauvelin to feel the icy glare of his eyes as he finished. She felt hot tears rising in her eyes; hate—fearing, absolute hate—swelled up within her, and, what with the tears blinding her eyes, she looked down stubbornly at the table.

She knew full well that an "either-or" was coming; for this she strove harder than ever to prepare herself, strove to keep back the angry tears which were fast in coming.

She did not recall for a long while after what happened then—did not remember how, after finally mastering her emtions, she heard his slow, methodical voice repeating his present "either-or".

"…if you refuse to aid us—France, you beloved country—you will be separately imprisoned in our worst prisons and in time put through a fair trial… your family will be shot first, before your eyes…"

It was too much. The evil, greedy, triumphant man had accomplished his purpose.

Jumping to her feet in sheer anger and despair, Jeanne screeched:

"Never! Never! Never!"

She was dragged, an emotional wreck, out of the room, and into a separate cell; where she sat, huddled up in a corner, crying her heart out toward the Heavens.

Chauvelin was satisfied. He remained at his desk, satisfaction written plainly over his features. Once again he would win; the Scarlet Pimpernel was gone off the stage long ago—ever since he imprisoned Jeanne and her family. For once he had defeated his arch enemy, and this one triumph would make him happy, whatever happened to him afterwards—whether or not that illustrious gentleman chose to take out his revenge on him. He cared not what death he died, after this.

Jeanne, he felt sure, would, after a day or two in isolation, consent at last, and the distant—not so distant—relatives of the King and Queen of France would become aids to the new Republic, conveying the foremost sense of patriotism to any who may be in doubt.

His colleagues had rarely seen him as placid and composed as when he retired that night. What he did not see was, as Jeanne was taken out of the room, one of the soldiers winked cheerily at him as they exited.

Chapter 9

The Mysterious Personage

I

"Fire!"

The word, spoken in a cruel, heartless voice, jerked Jeanne out of a restless sleep. The dream had made her toss and turn for five minutes, and now she woke to a silent, still reality.

There was no window in her cell, so that she did not know it was dawn; she sat up, a cold fear gripping her heart. She had broken into a hot sweat, and she wiped tears from her eyes while she told herself again and again that it was truly a dream.

It was too much. She knew there was a better way. She could not live in such a terrified state, fear gripping her every moment, hate preventing her from any contact with her only company now—her Lord.

She knelt, slowly, on the cold floor; tears began to stream anew down her cheeks. Since hse had been imprisoned she had slowly lost faith in her God, and now she asked for forgiveness, utter repentance and sorrow bringing the tears down in a torrent.

"Oh Father!" she cried, looking up toward the ceiling once more, though this time we can be more sure of what she saw. For what would seem five minutes she murmured "Father" in a repentant tone; but after a little she felt the peace of knowing she was forgiven.—utter, full peace, such as is only felt at those times. Her heart was wrapped in a warm embrace, as she sat there, her hands folded and wet, her hair covering her face. Then, and only then, did the grip of fear fade away, the sweat evaporate, and her tears of anguish, sorrow, fear and hate, became those of serenity, if not total peace, and she found herself calm to the notion of her fate and that of her family. She knew that, whatever became of them, whatever cruel devices Chauvelin thought of and played out, her Lord and God was never defeated; that, if He chose—which she hardly dared to hope for—He would rescue them all from defiled France.

It was certainly not peace in knowing He could rescue them; on the contrary, her heart became fixed in knowing more fully the knowledge she had possessed from the start—that, in the end, they all would meet in a perfect place, together, and with Him, without sorrow, or tears, or anguish. She felt confident in facing any cruelty or death in knowing this.


	5. Chapter 8 thru 10

A few hours later Jeanne's tears were dried, and her appearance then would have made Chauvelin uneasy when he saw her calm, serene eyes, and her peacefully folded hands. She had devised no plan of escape; instead, she waited patiently for the next trial her God chose to test her faith with, to cleanse her more and more until she should meet Him in heaven—which, she felt, was the day she looked forward to, and which, now, was not long in coming.

II

The night had been cold, and it told on his age. No fire burned in the grate, for there was no dry wood this time of year, and he had not the strength to chop anymore.

Jeanne had just left on her errand. Her argument had sounded so convincing, and besides, whether he acknowledged it or not, he did not have any argument left in him. These past several weeks had, as Jeanne had noticed to her dread, told on his strength. His Bible was his only solace; he kept it near him always, reading the most encouraging verses from Isaiah and the Psalms, sometimes staying up nights reading by the scant light of the candle at the desk—much like Jeanne had found him that blessed night.

Or was it blessed? Would Jeanne return in the morning? Had he been awakened to a little joy and renewal only to see it dashed before his eyes once more?

He would not let himself think on it. Turning to Psalms he sought consolation in the words:

"_He will fulfill the desire of them that fear Him: He also will hear their cry, and will save them."_

He did not think of his wife and daughter; he already read and been comforted by similar words in the Living Book, for he believed they were gone for good, and only if God chose to return them from the dead through Jeanne, it was as well. He had shed his tears for them long before now. When his heart longed for them, as it often did, he read these words in solace:

"_He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds."_

This night, he placed Jeanne, his only daughter and family now, in God's hands, and trusted to His judgment whether He would spare her.

In the morning, after a rather sleepless night,Mange woke in the font bedroom with his Bible beside him on the rickety night stand. A warm July sun begged to be let through the curtained window; he pulled back the clothes—which were almost rags now—and let the beams stray in all directions into the room. It was a contrast from the cold night, and he was thankful it wasn't winter.

Jeanne had told him she would certainly return before morning, for she herself doubted whether she would be able to enter that forbidding building.Mange hardly knew her plans; he consented, though reluctantly, to whatever her excited endeavors were. He did not think a poor girl around the prison would excite any suspicion in the human bloodhounds lurking about.

The fears of last night had been left in the back of his mind. He made his way to her bedroom, expecting to find her still asleep, for she must have had a long night. He did not look forward to any good news from her escapade of the night.

But he wished to have a glimpse of her young, sleeping face, and ask her how she had faired.

As he neared the bedroom the noticed the sunbeams shining within. She must have forgotten to close the when she retired, he vaguely thought. He neared the doorway, and stepped within.

Inside, he found a perfectly-made bed, with no signs of having been slept in. He had watched her the morning before as she pulled the sheets up; he saw the Bible still upon her nightstand that told beyond doubt that she was not there to read it.

For a moment it was not clear in his old mind; perhaps she had been late, detained, slept elsewhere. And then it hit him. He swayed backward, trying to keep his feet; tears lept into his care-worn eyes, and he clutched at his heart in obvious pain.

He would have fallen backwards, had not two unusually strong arms held him up—they carried him back to the living room and out the back door, where two saddled horses awaited, one by which stood a tall young man, who immediately came forward and helped his chief to put the old man into the other saddle.

Chapter 10

The Daydream

I

She had no Bible with her. Otherwise, she would have been reading every moment of the dreary three days Chauvelin gave her to "rethink" her decision—in other words, to torture her with the thought of the "Either-Or" he had placed before her.

But she never one rethought her utter refusal, though every time she thought over the horrible circumstances, her heart almost broke in two, and she cried aloud to God for mercy.

At the end of the appointed time she was again taken to the bare office, and again faced the cruel glare of her antagonizer. This time she did not look into the icy gray eyes; he could never force her to, she thought vaguely. She was seated in the same chair, and again handed a tin cup of very weak coffee. This time Chauvelin took his cup in his hands and sipped from it thoughtfully, looking her over and noticing her weak points, if she had any. She waited patiently until he spoke.

"I have been eagerly awaiting your decision, citizeness," he said, and his face showed plainly his impatience, though he tried greatly to hide it.

"I hope you have come to the right decision."

Jeanne smiled within herself, even in her desperate position. Even so, her heart felt as if it would burst, so great was her fear of what his response would be to her answer. Would he force her into submission? She could only fear as much, and she cried to God again for help and compassion.

"I have confidence that I have chosen the right decision," she said with surprising great composure, which alarmed Chauvelin from the beginning.

"I will never aide this cruel Republic, and will flee from it, God-willing, until France is herself again."

She could not see for a moment, how Chauvlein took it. Then she saw his eyes become a burning furnace of hate. He still retained his composure, but it was all the more frightening as he spoke.

"Very well," he said, the words piercing Jeanne as with a dagger, "we will see what a week in the tower will do for you. You will no doubt be honored to be resident of the late Queen's occupancy."

She was dragged out without ceremony. Her eyes were blinded with tears of anguish as the two soldiers dragged her down the long, cold hall.

Where was she going? What had she done?

"I will never consent!" she repeated to herself, "whatever measures he takes, I will not consent!"

But even as she said the defiant words in her mind, she cringed and dreaded the tower, search her mind wildly for some plan of escape—some way, perhaps, to take her own life—she could never live now!

"O God, take me!"

A masculine hand passed over her mouth; it was swift, not even noticed by the other soldier; a damp cloth passed over at the same time, and Jeanne flet herself becoming dizzy and light-headed.

Her last thoughts, as she passed into oblivion, were:

"O God, take me now!"

II

Mangewoke in a wild state of mind.

"Jeanne! My Jeanne!" he murmured, trying desperately to raise himself.

A firm hand pushed him down.

"You will not take her! She is my only daughter! She is innocent!"

Again the firm hand pressed down on his chest, and he was forced to lie down once more.

"Ah," he sighed in defeat, "take me where you will; I am done for."

The warm, inviting sun shown spotted through the trees as the two riders and the one's burden moved lightly, and almost noiselessly, through the forest. A frightened bird flew out of the path here and there, whilst the calls of others about the forest warned their fellows of the intruders into their territory.

Mange, still in a half-stupor, murmured his pleadings in no hope of succeeding in them. He lay, submissive to his fate, looking forward to what he thought to be his death.—Freedom at last, from this terrible world with its evil idealists and human hounds! Yes, he was finished; finished fighting against a tidal wave which could not be beaten, and which must after all be submitted to. He had no fight left in him. He had nothing to live for; let them finish off his frail, wasted body, and release him into a much happier world. Yes; such a world! Where no sorrow or pain could be known! As he lay, half unconscious, weary and beaten, he thought of that promise of Eternal life after death upon this earth. He allowed himself—though he could do little about it if he wanted to—to be carried along, whither he knew not, nor cared not. Now that everything was lost, he could die peacefully, and meet his family in that Blessed place.

The gentle monotony of the horse's stride soon put him back to a full sleep, and he was only awakened fully when he felt a not so rough hand gently shaking his shoulder.

"Perhaps we should allow him to sleep," said a strange voice, which helped him to gain consciousness. It sounded unusually kind and soft, unlike the rough, selfish tones heard so often those days.

A deeper voice replied, in authorative, yet gentle tones:

"It would be best to wake him; he must be able to walk. Hello, my friend! I sincerely hope the ride through that beastly wood—eh, Andrew?—has not deprived you of much rest. But I had perforce to awake you, for the continuance of our journey depends on your wakefulness. Please me, if you will, by taking a drink of this wholesome liquor—of much better quality than the sour French water. Will you sit up? Aye, that's how."

Whilst one hand held the flask, the other gently helpedMange to sit up. He looked about him, utterly bewildered.

He was sitting on a saddle blanket laid out in a small clearing in the woods. Nothing but trees surrounded him. Overhead the sky was a striking blue, and the bright sun shining straight down told of the noon hour. He looked down again, and was faced with the two young, jovial faces of English gentleman, the one tall even whilst he sat, with pale blue eyes and a ready helping hand, the other with gentle and kind eyes and a ready smile.

He knew not what to make of it all. These kind faces were wholly unlike the cruel prison keepers as he had imagined them; the forest around him was, by his own knowledge and experience, the Calais wood, and not the common prison.

"What is this? Who are you?" he asked, speaking his thoughts as they presented themselves.

"A wood, my friend, and your friends, taking you to a better and safer place," replied the taller one, the both smiling jovially all the time.

"We are nearly to the outskirts and will have you on board a yacht in no time."

But still he could not believe it; the gentlemanly faces, the danger past, it all seemed as if he were dreaming—this could not be so. Had not all his family been arrested and taken to prison to guillotined? Was he not dying now, or dead? He had nothing more to live for, if they were on their way to eternity.

"I am dreaming; this cannot be so. Leave me to die; and do not tempt me with happy dreams."

AT these words he was surprised to be met with a jovial laugh that startled him, and frightened all the evesdropping birds away.

"My dear fellow," said the tall gentleman—he who had laughed, "you are sadly like the rest of them. As improbable as it may seem to you, we are not ghosts, nor are we actors in a dream. I've given you some good strong liquor, so you cannot be asleep."

The reality was lowly dawning on him. These men, --these gentlemen, wholly ulike the rough and unfeeling Frenchmen of these days—dressed in perfectly tailored capes and breeches, could be none other than that mysterious personage and his league—him whom Jeanne had so fiercely despised and distrusted. Could it be true? – were they really rescuing him from the horrors of his native land?

But what of Jeanne? What of his wife and Adel? He would not be saved to live a safer life in England while they suffered and—no! He could never live with himself!

"My daughters, my wife," he cried aloud, "I will never leave them. You cannot take me away and leave them. Oh God! I would rather die with them!"

He rose in desperation as he spoke. Why—how could these men save him and expect him to live, whilst leaving his family to their fate? Cruel! Heartless! Did they have no feeling?

"Nay, my friend!" spoke the tall gentleman, once more pushing him down gently with a firm hand. "Do not be off so quickly."

Before he could say anything in remonstrance, the gentleman continued.

"Lud, but you are as determined as ever! – Barely do you see such devotion, though, these days," he added in a lower voice. Before he said more, he took a tin plate on which was a piece of good bred and some fresh cheese, and offered it to Mange.

"Eat, you will feel better and think better. And I will talk."

He silently obeyed. The bread and cheese were more welcome than he knew; they were not the stale and hard fair of these days in France, but tasty and actually pleasant to eat. Whilst he partook of the food, the tall gentleman set his wildest fears and ease.

III

Jeanne did not return to consciousness until what seemed to her, hours later. When she woke at last, it was not a cold draft of wind within the prison, but a warm beam of sunshine that was her first conscious feeling. She still felt drowsy, but the warmth of the sun slowly revived her. She wondered vaguely where he was. Her last thoughts began to show themselves. She remembered her confrontation with Chauvelin, and her desperate refusal to betray her country to a pack of wolves. She remembered her awaiting fate—and that of her family—any hour now, because of her refusal to cooperate. Her thoughts were to herself, surprisingly calm, as she said in her heart,

"Lord, I am in Your hands now."

As she gazed unsuspectingly at the blue sky above, where the sun made its way to the noon hour, a face suddenly came within view.

It was the face of Lord Tony.

She jumped, startled, bewildered, and excited—she knew not what for—at the same time. The concerned face looking down at her gently held her arm and cautioned her to be still.

"You!" she cried. She knew not what to think, or do.

But Lord Tony did. Cautioning her to remain quiet, he helped her to sit up,. And handed her a tin plate of the same fair her father had partaken of a few days before her.

"Mademoiselle," spoke Lord Tony, and his tones and gestures reminded her of those he had practiced in the Ballroom in London.

"It is absolutely necessary that we keep the utmost silence. Be assured you are in the safest of hands."

For the first time Jeanne noticed another kind face. She recognized him as Lord Hastings.

Suddenly, before she could recover her scattered thoughts, they were on their way. She was helped onto a spare horse, and they began trotting, wither, she knew not—But she was confident in her safety. It was dawning on her what was happening—though she hardly dared to hope.


	6. Chapter 11 ENDING

NOTE FROM AUTHOR: I need a lot of advise on the ending... this is my very first attempt at ending a novelette. Thank you for all your encouraging and edifying reviews! They have all been so helpful and I am very grateful to you all for your time and input.

Enjoy!  
E. Ellington

IV

Whilst Jeanne was being borne swiftly toward her father and the sea, where were Madame Andole and Adel?

That same day, not far away they were safe and free. They were now being escorted, whither, they knew not as yet. Along rough and deserted roads and paths they traveled, sometimes buried in a vegetable cart driven by two roughly spoken and likewise clad citizens, sometimes huddled in evil-smelling rugs and driven by the same seemingly heartless and cruelly-spoken citizens.

As yet Chauvelin knew nothing of their escape—nor that of Jeanne and her father. He sat in Calais, placid and contented, waiting to be notified of everything being in readiness fr the Barbarous act he planned to carry out.

Madame Andole and Adel had been surprised and not a little startled, to be whisked out from their dismal occupancy before they could utter a word of protest. It all happened so swiftly, that as they were bundled toward safety every minute, their heads still reeled in disbelief of the miracle for which they had hardly dared to hope or pray. They did not dare to think of the joy of meeting with their daughter and sister, whom they thought was still in England—and not to mention their beloved husband and father, from whom they had been as quickly and ruthlessly whisked away—for, if God had chosen to free them, it could only be true that their dearest was waiting for them, to go with them into that land of safety and happiness—England.

There, they would meet Jeanne, and then only would their family—which had been torn apart, how long they could not begin to conjecture—would at last be complete. That was the only clear thought that possessed them as they bumped along badly-paved roads toward the sea—and ultimate safety.

Chapter 11

Unbroken Promises

I

The sea was calm. Hardly a wave ruffled its surface. The _Daydream, _waiting in its hide-out for its passengers so that it could embark toward England once more, lay silent and still at anchor. For three days it had remained thus.

Andole, impatiently waiting, sat on deck, allowing the little wind that blew to ruffle his clothing, however slightly. It seemed to put new life in him; the old uncertainties and fears dared not show themselves now. He knew he was safely in the hands of their English friends, and it was only a matter of hours now before he would be, with all his family, in England.

He looked out over the shore from which the yacht anchored. Trees in all directions shut out all connection with the rest of the shoreline, great boulders piled everywhere made travel difficult here.—All factors pointed to a bad spot for push-off or landing. The Scarlet Pimpernel had chosen his shove-off well, for here unwanted pursuit from land would be next to impossible.

He turned under deck, to ease the eager anxiety to see his family who even now were coming toward him. Also, he was tired, for the watching hours were long and the soft, prodding breeze fatigued him. He soon drifted into a fitful and dreamless sleep.

From around the corner from where Andole had sat, waiting and watching, came two gentlemen. They were the same two who had escorted him, but now both wore their sea-faring attire, knowing this to be the day the return-voyage would take place.

Sir Percy Blakeney, Bar., walked alongside his longtime comrade and one of his most trusted members of the league, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes. Their manners, those as if they had been sipping wine amongst the finest ladies of London.

Sir Andrew spoke first.

"I look forward to meeting my Suzanne once more. I could see it in her eyes, though she tried to hide it, that she was worried ill for me when we left."

This young man, dashing, gentle, and kind, looked longingly out to sea, where in the distance beyond sight, lay Dover, and home. Still, he likewise longed to be with his other comrades, who even now were facing dangers every minute.

Sir Percy Blakeney smiled on his friend a knowing, sad smile, which yet held the smoldering fire of adventure.

"She can have no reason for fear now," quoth he, "for I sent a career on ahead. Marguerite will no doubt call on her to read it."

"What time are the others expected?"

"In the next hour, if all went as planned. But I have confidence I them, especially Tony."

The latter sentence went without saying. Sir Percy—the Scarlet Pimpernel—had the utmost confidence in his league, and was—except, perhaps once— always satisfied in this.

Therefore, a smile flitted across the baronet's mouth as they continued their stroll on deck. One looked sometimes toward the sea, but frequently both looked toward land, searching and listening for the signal. At last, after half an hour of waiting, the two began to descend below deck.

Suddenly, piercing the afternoon stillness like a knife, the call of a _King Fisher_ rang out across the beach.

Both turned instantly. Following the sound came a second, which sounded like a female answering.

Immediately following this, a small portion of the dense patch of trees was pulled back like a curtain, and revealed the forms of five cavaliers and three women.

II

An hour or two earlier, walking through dense thicket, Jeanne longed for a rest. The warm sun shown through the trees as it had three days before, spotted and directly overhead. Her escorts tried their best to reduce her exhaustion, and put themselves between her and the briers that whipped by, but though she was grateful for their efforts and was helped by them, still the thorns caught in her face and her legs felt more wearied and ready to collapse with every step.

Suddenly behind them they heard the call of a _French bird_. Jeanne was startled by its suddenness and closeness: but Lord Tony and Lord Hastings were not surprised, rather were they delighted by the sound. While Jeanne stood looking toward where the sound came from, it was answered from directly behind her. She turned to her two escorts who stood behind her. They did not look at her, but continued to look forward, until the rustling of leaves told of the approaching of human footsteps.

In a few minutes Jeanne recognized two women, one older, one considerably younger, coming toward them, accompanied by three men dressed in pitiable rags.

For a moment she hardly dared believe her eyes.

There, coming toward her, with likewise surprised and joy-filled eyes, were her mother and sister.

Without hesitation she ran toward them, and for several minutes not a word was said nor any sound heard but the soft sound of joyful sobs, as the three passed the time in one long embrace. The five gentlemen stood discreetly aside.

Jeanne hardly noticed them as she looked once more into the loving, motherly eyes of her long-lost mother, and the young, sweet ones of her younger sister. Oh, joy of joys! Could there be any other in this world?

"Mother!" she whispered at last, afraid lest this sweet moment of bliss should be but a dream. "Is it really you? Or am I dreaming?"

Her mother sealed the reality with a kiss on her cheek. Jeanne was not surprised to feel the lips to be wet.

"Yes, it is me," said that soft, ever-loving voice, with a motherly chuckle. Then she lifted Jeanne's face in both her hands.

"I heard you came back to France, love, after being taken there by our friends here… why?"

The question, Jeanne had hoped, would be postponed until a more opportune time. As it was, she felt guilty and blushed at the thought of repeating the story of her loss of faith in the very men that stood apart from them—near, nevertheless—and their chief.

She looked down in utter shame.

"It is a long story, one that will sound better on our way to safety," she said quietly.

Her mother seemed to understand. A slight smile passed over her lips, and she dropped the subject.

"Very well, dearest. For now I will be content that God has brought us together again." She glanced toward the group of men, who turned on cue and answered the question in her eyes.

"If we hurry, Madame," assured Lord Tony, bowing low, "we will be on the _Daydream_ in a few hours and will meet your husband there."

The rest of the journey was stepped in freshness and a spring of step such as had hardly possessed the sisters and their mother in recent weeks until now.

III

So it was that, a few hours later the women first caught sight of their means of travel to the land of happiness and safety. The _Daydream_ seemed to welcome them with open arms as they neared it with every step. Its calm sails promised happiness and peace, its clear, inviting deck assured safety and a place to rest.

Jeanne's father did not hear the calls of the birds above deck. He suddenly woke out of his light sleep a half hour later, feeling more fatigued than when he had laid down. He wondered if his family would come today. Sir Andrew had assured him they were expected any time today.

For several minutes he stayed below, reading some from his Bible. Suddenly he heard footsteps approaching his cabin.

It was Sir Andrew.

"Will you follow me above deck?" he asked. He never had anyone more willing.

From where they stood on deck, Jeanne and her mother and sister caught sight of their husband and father as he made his way eagerly toward them. We will not intrude on that happy scene to attempt to re-account the joyful weeping, the uncontrollable embracing and kissing, and the many unintelligible words directed to nobody in particular as the four reunited after many a week's parting and suffering.

Was Jeanne happy? Had she fulfilled her quest?

All she could say, as she allowed herself to be smothered by the kisses and hugs of her parents and sister, was this: that yes, beyond doubt was she happy, and that no, she had not fulfilled her quest to find her family and bring them with her to safety: she had, instead, found her faith in her Lord and His servants—not excluding the Scarlet Pimpernel, who even then, with a jovial smile on his ever-jovial face, descended below deck with a twinkle in his eye, looking forward to _his _blissful reuniting back in Richmond.

THE END


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